


Cherry Wine

by andchaos



Category: Queer as Folk (US)
Genre: Canon Compliant, Fluff, Future Fic, M/M, Post-5x13, Post-Canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-08
Updated: 2016-01-08
Packaged: 2018-05-12 15:03:58
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,091
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5670238
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/andchaos/pseuds/andchaos
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Brian touches down on a Friday afternoon, the sun streaking across the tawny and flame sky as his plane rolls to the ground. Justin watches from the window overlooking the runway and commits the scene to memory to draw later. He imagines he’ll paint it when Brian’s stretched out naked beside him, his chest steadily falling and rising, when Justin can look over for the subtle signs that he’s come to life and not another daydream sprawled beside him.</p><p>(or, when Brian comes to New York for the weekend)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Cherry Wine

**Author's Note:**

> named after [the song by hozier of the same name](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=pWWX0aUW_HY), which you should definitely be listening to
> 
> xoxo

          Brian touches down on a Friday afternoon, the sun streaking across the tawny and flame sky as his plane rolls to the ground. Justin watches from the window overlooking the runway and commits the scene to memory to draw later. He imagines he can see Brian in the plane, his fluffy hair pressed against the window. He imagines he’ll paint the scene when Brian’s stretched out naked beside him, his chest steadily falling and rising, when Justin can look over for the subtle signs that he’s come to life and not another daydream sprawled beside him.

          He looks immaculate when he sweeps through the gate—even now, he looks like he owns the ground he walks on, like he could crush the entire airport with a clench of his fist. Justin privately thinks that Brian envisions a crown on his head at all times, fitted but crooked, and finds the image fitting: Brian Kinney, King of New York. That was meant to be Justin’s title, but he would find room for another ruler in his kingdom if Brian asked.

          Brian’s smile is radiant when he finally finds Justin in the crowd, already pushing his way through the mass with his eyes fixated on his goal. Brian begins pushing too, shoving through with the bag on his shoulder helping clear the way, and when they meet they ignore the horde around them and Justin half jumps in his excitement, in his need to get his arms around Brian’s neck. Brian’s own wrap around Justin’s waist and he’s momentarily lifted off the ground, and he can hear them both exhaling sharply at how hard they’re squeezing each other but he doesn’t care. Brian’s strong arms are around him and his soft hands are on his back and the raw scent of him is in his head, and Justin thinks it reminds him of Pittsburgh then realizes that that isn’t why it feels like home.

          The grin hasn’t left Brian’s face when he puts him back on the ground. Justin laughs and presses his palm against Brian’s cheek, the other still around his neck so he can feel the soft _thumpa thumpa_ of his heartbeat, reminding Justin he’s there. Justin leans up and presses his smile against Brian’s.

          The kiss is brief. Justin falls back on flat feet and winds both arms back around his neck.

          “Hello,” Brian says. His voice lilts, like in amusement—Justin prefers to think of it as something closer to ecstasy.

          Justin presses his face into Brian’s collar, kisses a smile into his shirt.

          “I missed you,” he says.

          Brian laughs and Justin can feel him nuzzling slightly into his hair. His fingers bite gently into Justin’s back.

          “Missed you too,” he says shortly.

          The sun is finally finishing its fall behind the skyline when they make their way out of the airport, Justin spinning in the lead with a noticeable bounce in his step. He whirls around every now and again to catch a look at Brian following him, but mostly he skips a few steps ahead, waving his hands in the air as he talks about the new piece he’s working on. They have to hail a cab to take them all the way back to Justin’s apartment,  and Brian catches his hand as he waves one down, pulling him around to face him. Justin moves to drag his hand away, playfully, and laughs when Brian snags his sweatshirt between two fingers and draws them chest to chest.

          The cab bumps up against the curb. Brian bumps his nose against Justin’s. They don’t speak; for a moment, they just watch each other. Then Brian grins and swiftly kisses him before pulling away. He opens the cab door and gestures grandly inside.

          “Your carriage awaits,” he says. Justin rolls his eyes at Brian’s cheek and ducks inside, scooting over to the far seat so that Brian can follow him inside.

          The cab ride is long; Justin falls asleep on Brian’s shoulder twice before they get there, and both times wakes to Brian’s arm firmly wrapped around him. He smiles and presses a sleepy kiss to where the collar of his sweater meets his skin before pulling away, and he shoves Brian out of the cab so that he can pay their fare and join him on the sidewalk. Brian’s watching him when he climbs out and as he goes to lead the way inside.

          “You’re a rich artist type now, are you?” he asks.

          Justin glances at him over his shoulder, confused as he punches in the building code. Brian’s eyebrows are raised, but his eyes are shining.

          Justin laughs. Brian’s lips quirk up as they head inside. Justin presses the button for the rickety elevator and leans against the wall beside the panel, regarding Brian with repressed endearment and his arms crossed.

          “I’ve sold a few pieces,” he says, wearing the same almost-smile.

          Brian steps closer. Justin thought they were close before, but he never knows the distance until Brian steals it, claims it for his own.

          “You could afford the fare,” he says.

          He tilts his head to the side. Justin presses his lips together.

          “I’m not starving or anything, Brian,” he says. “I even got my radiator fixed.”

          “Is there food in the fridge now too?”

          Justin shoves him in the chest, lightly. He doesn’t object when Brian catches his hand and keeps it pressed there, over his heart.

          “Leftovers,” Justin says. “I actually cooked.”

          “Hmm, the stove’s working now too.” Brian leans his forehead to Justin’s. “Who knows, maybe soon you’ll be _my_ sugar daddy.”

          “Ugh, _Brian_!”

          This time, when he extracts his hand and shoves Brian in the chest, he does it for real. Brian laughs as he stumbles back a few steps, and the elevator dings as it finally reaches the bottom floor.

          Justin didn’t clean up, even in anticipation of company. The only people he has over anymore are mostly other artists from the galleries he sells at who relate to the mess or potential buyers who appreciate the lived-in starving artist aesthetic, and Justin figures he needs to clean for Brian even less than for any of them.

          He kicks a paint-splattered shirt out of the doorway and leads the way inside. He barely gets three feet from the door before Brian’s hand closes around his wrist and tugs him backwards, and he finds himself shoved against the door with a hand to either shoulder and Brian’s mouth, open and hot on his own.

          They make love slowly all night, hot and ardent and on every flat-ish surface in his apartment.

 

\- - -

 

          The sun is in his eyes when he wakes. He’s in the one spot on his mattress that the sun shines right on, which he usually avoids even in sleep, but this morning he’s pressed all along and half on top of the warm line of Brian’s body, and the sun streaks directly into his eyes. Justin groans and rolls off, flattening Brian’s arm beneath his back as he blinks up at the ceiling. For a moment he just lays there, listening to the tempo of Brian’s breathing, but he gets up eventually and goes to shower.

          Brian wanders into the kitchen in a pair of sweatpants as Justin’s finishing breakfast, and he leads him over to a table that he quickly clears of half-finished drawings and puts their plates down. Brian _hmm_ s as he settles into his seat and breathes in visibly, and Justin smiles across at him. His table is small, and he slots his shins between Brian’s beneath it, squeezing his leg with his ankles. Brian’s smile is soft when he looks up at him, and Justin sways their legs together. Without comment he begins to eat.

          “What are your plans for us today?” Brian asks. He cuts smoothly through his eggs over-easy with the edge of his fork, washes the bite down with his coffee.

          Justin gulps down a swig of caffeine and shrugs. He stabs at a piece of sausage and bites half of it off.

          “I thought maybe we could go to the gallery,” he says, glancing up at Brian indiscreetly. “I could show you some of the stuff I’ve been working on. I’ve been doing a series—a couple of collectors have even come in to look into buying all of them together. I didn’t want to show you before, but I’m almost done now, so…”

          Brian smirks like he already knows the answer to his question before he even asks it.

          “What’s the series about?”

          Justin grins back at him. “It’s raw,” he says. “A kind of…well, I’m going for euphoria, but who knows. Everyone’s allowed to interpret art differently. I’ve been working on it for months. One every…oh, I don’t know, every three to five weeks or so.”

          Brian’s eyebrows arch. He suggests innocently, “Hmm. That’s around the same timeframe that you see me, isn’t it?”

          “Is it?” Justin taps a finger against his chin, squinting into the corner of his kitchen, above the cabinets, playacting at a faraway stare. “Strange…Coincidental.”

          “Yeah, coincidental,” Brian agrees. Justin grins.

          Justin cooks more extravagant breakfasts for himself all the time, but this one seems especially delicious. Brian offers to help him clean up when they’re done but Justin declines. He wraps his hand around Brian’s wrist, preventing him from reaching for the faucet.

          “I’ll have plenty of time to clean up later,” he declares. He slides his hand down to fit against Brian’s palm, slipping his fingers through the spaces between Brian’s. “When you’re gone. For now we should go christen my bed, don’t you think?”

          Brian blinks at him. “Didn’t we christen that last night? Along with the rest of your apartment?”

          “I think the bed’s the only place we actually _missed_ ,” Justin laughs, already leading him away. “We just collapsed there after you were done pounding me on the couch. Come on, let’s make some memories.”

          “We’ve done it on this bed before,” Brian points out. He catches Justin’s forearms as he pushes Brian down on the bed, pulling him on top of him.

          “Every time you come over we have to start over.” Justin rolls his eyes. “God, I’ve done the sheets since then.”

          “How could I have been so stupid and missed something _so_ obvious?”

 

          They make it to the gallery around midday. It’s warm out, and Brian’s rolled up his sleeves to his elbows. Justin not-so-secretly likes the look, a lot, but he doesn’t bother telling Brian how good he looks—Brian hates being informed on things he already knows.

          A few of the gallery curators smile or wave at them when they pass, but most of them don’t remember Brian—Justin can tell, because those are the ones that offer curious glances or lingering leers that slide over Brian’s entire body. That doesn’t bother Justin, it never has. Especially here, in this city, after the promises shared in their aborted engagement, Justin knows that Brian’s heart beats for him alone. He knows the same isn’t always true in Pittsburgh, but this is New York; Brian’s not a god here, with his cosmic powers and otherworldly energy—he’s only a king. And kings only stray if they don’t have another king to fill their veins and the empty spaces between their bones.

          Justin wants to laugh as he leads him around the gallery, showing off his own work and his favorite pieces from others. Brian’s eyes slide over patrons every now and again. He still thinks he’s a god, of course, if the way he flirts is any indication. Justin knows better, he knows him now. What’s a god to a nonbeliever?

          Justin leads him over to the back corner, where a large canvas is blown up from where Justin created it on the computer that Brian gave him years ago. Despite the dark colors in which Justin seems to specialize, he thinks the overall effect is pleasant. He slips his arm through the crook of Brian’s elbow and leans into him as he looks up at him, expectant.

          Brian takes his time studying the piece, trailing his eyes over seemingly every inch of it while Justin glances between the art and his face. His expression gives away nothing, even when he turns to look at Justin.

          Then he says, smooth as ever, “It’s fucking brilliant.”

          “I know,” Justin says excitedly.

          “Ladies and gentlemen, he’s modest, too!”

          Justin tugs his arm free and bounces up onto his toes to kiss Brian on the cheek.

          “I just sold it,” he announces smugly. “Some rich asshole in a powersuit saw it and she just fell in _love_ with it. She swore she was gonna hang in the guest room of her mansion.”

          “I would bet there’s not a mansion within a hundred miles of this part of the city.”

          Justin smacks him on the arm. “Or her loft, or her—whatever! I don’t care where the old hag hangs it, the point is she _bought_ it! For like, a shit ton of money!”

          “Congratulations,” Brian says. He sounds mild, but he wraps his arm around Justin and drags him closer, and he kisses him hard on the temple.

          Justin drags him down to kiss him properly on the mouth. Brian looks proud when he pulls back and glances at his artwork again.

          “What are you going to buy with your winnings?”

          “Hmm, I don’t know. Rent?” Justin laughs. Then he gloats, shamelessly, “She says I’m brilliant.”

          “She’s right,” Brian says firmly. Justin stretches up to kiss him again.

          Justin guides him around and coaxes compliments out for all of his pieces, insisting that Brian tell him specific aspects he likes and critique what could be improved. Brian, although far from patient, complies as they walk the whole gallery so that Justin can point out other artists’ paintings that he enjoys as well. Finally, around three, Brian complains that he’s hungry and Justin obliges to show him a semi-upscale restaurant for Brian to treat him to.

          “I’m your guest,” Brian says, mockingly offended, when Justin suggests that he take him out to lunch.

          Justin covers his heart with his free hand, the one not wrapped in Brian’s again. “But I just treated you to _art_. That kind of class and culture—you just can’t put a price on it.”

          Brian levels him a look. “But you can.”

          Justin grins, blindingly. “Of course I can,” he agrees. “You think lobster would cover it?”

          Brian scoffs. “What have I always taught you, Mr Taylor? Dream big.”

          “Oh, of _course_. I’ll have the caviar, then.”

          “Damn right you will.”

          The restaurant Justin steers them to isn’t nearly upscale enough for caviar, or even for lobster, but he orders a steak and steals bites of salmon off Brian’s plate, despite Brian threatening to stab him with his fork several times over the course of their meal.

          “You want to split dessert?” Justin teases when they’re done. “We can get two spoons and everything.”

          Brian rolls his eyes and leans back in his chair. Justin laughs and pushes the check across the table at him.

          Lunch became dinner without their knowledge, and the walk they take around afterwards leads them straight into early evening. They stop at the liquor store on the way home and, despite Brian’s complaints and warnings that he gets weird drunk on wine, Justin picks up a bottle of cherry Moscato and tucks it into the inside pocket of his jacket.

          The lights are flickering when they get back to the apartment. Justin hits the bulb a few times, but he only accomplishes shutting it off completely. Brian finds the floor lamp by the couch, which casts a weak light at best but covers most of the apartment anyway, save for the bedroom around the corner and the very edges of the kitchen nook. Justin sprawls out on the floor and pops the cork on the wine, and he leans back on his hands. He takes a long swig, his eyes set on where Brian’s messing with the cheap stereo on the shelves against the wall. Brian flips over the CD in his hand and scoffs at whatever he sees, but he slots it into the player anyway and hits a button. A soft, flowing tune falls over the room, enough to fade to the background after a little while. Brian smiles self-satisfactorily and slides to the floor beside him.

          He grabs the wine from Justin, takes a long drink, and shudders.

          “I hate wine,” he complains, shoving it back into Justin’s hand.

          “Oh, come on,” Justin says. “Every sad, starving artist must drink cheap wine and listen to abysmal music. It’s how we get cultured.”

          Brian snorts. “You’re not starving,” he says.

          He sounds confident, but Brian sees his gaze slide over Justin’s body, checking him out but not in the usual way that he does. Justin can’t help but to puff out his chest a little; he’s been trying to get to the gym twice a week, and it’s barely helped, but he can see a little definition starting to show anyway. Justin takes another sip.

          He licks a droplet away from the corner of his mouth. Brian takes back the wine and drinks more.

          “And you’re not _sad_ ,” he says when he puts the bottle down.

          He scrubs the back of his hand across his mouth. Justin reaches out then, and Brian leans closer, letting him cradle his jaw in his hand. Justin traces his thumb across Brian’s lower lip, his eyes soft and steady on his face.

          “Of course I’m not sad,” he says. “You’re here.”

          Brian rolls his eyes, but Justin can feel his smile against his mouth when he leans in and gently catches his lips with his own. Brian seems to capture him completely, like always, and Justin stretches into him when Brian slips an arm around his back and lowers him to the floor.

           They fuck harder than they did last night, twice as loud and rough enough that the first noise Justin is aware of, after Brian’s unsteady breathing in his ear and his quiet laughter as he kisses aimlessly down his neck, is the pounding of fists against the wall he shares with his obnoxious neighbor.

          Brian groans and presses one more kiss against his collarbone before he rolls onto his back, his arm slung over his own chest.

          “Fuck you!” he shouts in the direction of the offended neighbor. Then, more normally to Justin, he says, “Fuck them for ruining my afterglow.”

          “Aww,” Justin teases. He rolls onto his side and splays his hand across Brian’s chest. His lips bump into Brian’s shoulder. “Sorry. My other neighbor’s never home but that guy’s an asshole. And I know how much you like your afterglow.”

          “Damn right I like my afterglow. Sometimes the afterglow’s better than the fucking.”

          Justin props his chin on top of Brian’s shoulder. “You should fuck better men.”

          “Yeah, well. Pittsburgh is in short supply these days.”

          “Oh? Are the kingdom’s subjects finally scattering?”

          “No.” Brian rolls his head to the side to look at Justin squarely, and he breaks out into a wide smile. “The best fuck I had left town, though. Everyone else seems like shit in comparison.”

          Heat rushes into his cheeks, but Justin can’t help the laugh that breaks out of him. Brian sits up, and Justin joins him. He rubs his hand over Brian’s back while Brian leans over his lap to grab the wine bottle they shoved to the side.

          “I’m the best fuck you ever had?” Justin asks, already halfway to boasting.

          Brian stares at him, all the lines of his face made to seem confused, but Justin can tell he’s only teasing.

          “Who said I was talking about you?”

          Justin laughs again, this time more shocked than gratified, and he shoves Brian hard enough that he falls solidly onto his hand and laughs too. The song on the stereo pumps out something more upbeat but somehow just as quiet than the ones it’s been playing, and Justin takes the wine back from Brian after he tips back his third swallow in a row. He makes a grab for it but Justin pulls it away, and Brian’s hand trails over his wrist instead, then down his arm, and towards his elbow, then falls onto his bare hip. His finger spirals aimlessly across one of his thighs.

          Justin drinks more wine and lolls his head in Brian’s direction.

          “What are you doing?” he asks.

          Brian tilts his head up and offers a small, silly smile.

          “Drawing,” he says. “I’m an _artist_.”

          “No you’re not.” Justin locks his fingers around his wrist but it doesn’t stop him, and Brian’s finger scribbles on. “You just come up with the ideas. It takes geniuses like _me_ to actually bring them to life.”

          “Geniuses like you,” Brian repeats, looking politely incredulous.

          Justin _mhm_ s and nods swiftly. Brian trails his fingers back up his thigh, reducing him to shivers, before tracing up the cut of his hips and over his stomach and chest, until his entire hand curves around the side of Justin’s neck. Brian leans his forehead against the side of Justin’s forehead.

          “You _are_ a genius, _ensoleillement_ ,” Brian mumbles. His face tilts forwards, and he presses a kiss against Justin’s cheek.

          “What?” Justin chortles. “I knew you shouldn’t have had half a bottle of wine _that_ fast. On top of the Merlot you had at lunch—Dinner. Whatever.”

          “I’m just telling it like it is,” Brian says, pressing more soft kisses against the side of his face.

          “Yeah, and revisiting your high school years.” Justin’s hand finds Brian’s forearm and he grips it tightly. “What is that, French?”

          “I may have taken a few lessons,” Brian says, “before that bitch Madame Holiet failed me senior year for writing dirty poetry on my exam papers.”

          Justin laughs.

          “Yeah, teachers rarely like that for some reason.”

          “It was in French!” Brian protests. “I was writing in the language, for god’s sake. What’s the problem?”

          Justin bites his lip to hold back laughing when he says, “Brian Kinney’s the problem, as usual.”

          He breaks off his teasing and his laughter with a low hum when Brian’s lips find the corner of his mouth, and he turns his head, unraveling into Brian’s hot kiss. His tongue teases into Justin’s mouth, just barely there before it’s gone.

          “Brian,” he whispers.

          He can feel Brian’s breathing against his jaw, and then it’s gone, and Brian’s mouth is trailing, light and barely there, across his neck until he finds his ear and kisses there, gently.

          “Mon chéri?”

          Justin shudders out an exhale. He asks unsteadily, “You really paid attention in school, didn’t you?”

          Brian kisses, slow and hot, against his throat. He breathes, _“Je t’aime,”_ and Justin doesn’t know if he means it as an answer or not, but he breaks away from his embrace so he can turn in his arms and kiss him, long and hungry. Brian grabs for his waist and Justin shoves them both back so they’re pressed against the bottom of the couch. He settles into his lap. Even for them, the refractory period hasn’t gone on nearly long enough, but Justin doesn’t care about that right now. He just wants to be holding him, touching him in every way he can.

          By the time they come down from their kisses, from catching each other’s lips over and over, from turning their heads to devour each other from new angles, from sweeping their tongues across each other’s and gasping into each other’s mouths, Justin feels pleasantly warm all over and the wine has settled into his limbs, making his blood heavy and calm. He catches Brian in a softer kiss, less demanding, then finally pulls away.

          Justin huffs a laugh. “How do you say _god damn_ in French?”

          Brian chuckles too, and Justin shifts off his lap, back onto the floor beside him. Brian shakes his head.

          “Been a long time,” he says, stretching his arms out and leaning further back on the couch. He settles his elbow on the seat behind him. “I only know the dirty words anymore.”

          “That wasn’t dirty,” Justin says. “Besides, I thought time was no object.”

          Brian sobers quickly; he seems almost offended that Justin butchered the cliché, and he amends, “That’s money.”

          “No.” Justin draws the word out excessively. “You said it yourself. Time doesn’t mean anything, not to you.”

          Brian looks at him for a long moment, and he seems to catch the downward slope Justin’s mood is heading in because he reaches out and smooths his thumb along the wrinkle lines in Justin’s forehead.

          “Not to _us_ ,” he corrects. “You and me—we’re way more than all of that stupid human shit. I told you. Time isn’t—it isn’t even able to go anywhere near it. Time, distance—none of that can touch us.”

          “We’re human too.” He doesn’t mean it, but his voice comes out low, a catch up unhappiness to it. Brian frowns too. “Time’s a god to us mere mortals.”

          Brian shakes his head, that tiny smile back on his face, reassuring and disheartening all at once. His thumb strokes down Justin’s cheek instead. He reasons, “What’s a god to a nonbeliever?”

          Justin doesn’t say anything for a moment, he just stares. Then his somberness breaks, and it turns soft, and it becomes delight. He laughs and then Brian laughs and they fall back against the couch together, laughing and laughing.

          “God, you’re _such_ a fucking idiot!” Justin shouts.

          Brian grins, a few chuckles still bubbling through when he says, “I’m so fucking _brilliant_ , you mean! I’m Aristotle! I’m Descartes!”

          “Did those two actually have any philosophies in common?”

          “How the fuck should I know?”

          “You’re the one who got through college!”

          “And _you’re_ the pretentious artist who’s supposed to sit around spouting bullshit philosophy to prove your melancholy outlook on the world.”

          Justin side-eyes him. He throws out an elbow that catches Brian in the ribs, and Brian shouts out in protest and grabs his wrist. Justin tries to pull it away as Brian leans over trying to capture the other, and they wrestle, shoving each other back against the couch. Soon, their wrestling dissolves into kissing which dissolves into more wine drinking, and for awhile they just sit together in silence, finishing off the bottle.

          By the time they’re done they wind up on the floor, Justin on his back with his arm behind his head while Brian lounges with his head on Justin’s stomach. Justin strokes his free hand idly through Brian’s hair. His fingers linger on the crown of his head, pushing deep—Brian seems to subtly preen into his touch every time he does it.

          “Someday,” Justin says to the ceiling.

          They haven’t spoken in ten minutes. Brian doesn’t miss a beat.

          “Someday,” he concurs.

 

\- - -

 

          Justin found more wine in his cabinet—Brian enjoyed his jibes about suffering artists with _that_ one—and by the time they finished it off, they could find little energy or motive to do more than crawl onto the couch and fall asleep, naked, curled up together with only an old tattered blanket to cover them. Luckily, the in-between temperatures of late spring pervaded the apartment all night, and when Justin wakes up he finds himself pleasantly warm. Brian’s disappeared, but he feels too cozy for it to be solely contributed to the ratty blanket, so Justin assumes he couldn’t have left more than ten minutes ago.

          He sits up, running a hand through his hair and yawning as he looks around. He can only assume that Brian’s in the bathroom, because the rest of the apartment is empty. He wanders inside without knocking; they’ve lived together too long, and in too many different ways, to bother with all that.

          Brian’s showering when Justin comes in, and they share sleepy nods while Justin goes about brushing his teeth and splashing water on his face; he’s too tired to deal with a full-on shower, he’ll do it tonight.

          “I was going to make pancakes,” Brian says as Justin turns to leave.

          Justin nods over his shoulder. He says insolently, “I’ll go wait outside then,” and flashes a smile at Brian’s pursed expression before leaving the room.

          Brian does make pancakes, while Justin sits at the table by his small window and sketches. He meant to finish up one of the many works in progress he has strewn around the apartment, but instead he finds himself sketching Brian, clad in just his jeans and moving around Justin’s tiny kitchen.

          Justin used to do this a lot, a couple of years ago, when he was still recovering actively from his injury. The doctors warned him not to strain himself, but he liked sketching—it calmed him, and it wasn’t complicated enough to stress him out when he worked his hand too hard and it cramped up. He used to draw Brian a lot, because that soothed him too. Justin has a sketchbook filled up with Brian—his hair, his hands, his eyes, his cock—and it isn’t all dirty daydreams and domestic fantasies that fill the pages. Some of them are relics of his healing period: Brian sleeping, Brian showering, Brian reading, Brian working. He knows Daphne thinks of them as war wounds, but they remind him of something else—they tap into some well of deep calm inside of him, a place he had to unlock back then just to get through the day.

          Now, he does a messy sketch of Brian flipping pancakes by the stove, quick and imprecise. It’s already mostly done by the time Brian flips off the stove and comes over to the table to set down their plates.

          Justin didn’t plan anything special for their last day, and although he vaguely planned on taking a walk around the city or at least going out to lunch, he doesn’t find it in him to protest when Brian dumps their plates in the sink and pulls him over to the couch, and they spend most of the morning curled up together watching some terrible show that seems to be a dramatic parody of reality tv. Brian scoffs every commercial break and Justin has no idea how it got enough ratings to air this marathon, but neither of them change the channel and as the hours pass they only shuffle closer and closer together and further from the remote on the coffee table.

          Around one-thirty, Brian gets up to go to the bathroom and Justin wanders into the kitchen to fix himself a sandwich, and Brian too while he’s at it.

          Brian wants to lay in bed and fuck all day, and the idea is tempting, but Justin knows he’s going to be stuck in the studio painting for the next four days to prepare for yet another gallery showing, and he wants to get outside and stretch his legs while he still can. With the threat of holding Brian’s sandwich hostage, Justin manages to lure him outside and for a few turns around the block before Brian hauls him back inside for marathon farewell sex. He promises it will be even better than the hello sex; Justin would follow him even if it wasn’t, but he lets Brian try to prove himself because the only thing that gets them going faster than going too long without it is a challenge.

          By the time they collapse on the bed, finally spent but nowhere near satisfied, they don’t have a lot of time. Justin has to help him throw all of his belongings back into his bag and they practically fall into the street trying to hail a cab, which goes too slow through the crowded streets. They’re both sure he’s going to miss his flight, but they pull up to the airport with time to spare. Justin follows him into line for a ticket, and they pause outside the security gates.

          Brian’s hands are tight around his waist, but Justin thinks his gaze is even more stagnating; one look at him and everything in him stalls out. Justin clutches the collar of shirt, bunching the well-ironed material into his fists. He leans up and Brian bends and their foreheads are almost touching.

          “I’ll see you soon,” Justin whispers fiercely. “So, so soon.”

          Only one corner of Brian’s lips quirk upwards. “You always do,” he says. He’s also quiet; the words, though not intense on their own, are for their bubble alone. “You’re like a fucking infection I just can’t shake.”

          Justin breathes a trembling almost-laugh, but it doesn’t quite manifest into humor in the air.

          “If you wanted a cure you’d have found it by now,” he says. “Now shut the fuck up and say you’ll miss me.”

          Brian’s smile blooms fully now, and he says, in that voice like he feels this is all dreary, “Yes, dear.” But he presses his lips to Justin’s in a hard kiss and Justin knows that that same deprivation that sinks deeper and deeper into his bones with every day that goes by alone also seeps into Brian just as surely.

          Justin leans up further, keeping the kiss going for longer than either of them intended. Brian smiles softly and rubs his thumb into Justin’s cheek.

          “I’ll miss you,” Brian promises in a murmur. “I love you.”

          “Of course you do,” Justin teases. “You always have, you were just too chickenshit to admit it.”

          “I think you’re getting the two of us confused. Like always.”

          Justin taps his cheek with his hand and says, “Shut up,” and then pulls him into another kiss, softer this time. When he pulls away, he says lowly, “I love you.”

          Brian pulls him for one last short kiss and then pulls back completely, out of his arms and away from their isolated space. Their attentions momentarily linger, Brian’s eyes tracing every last detail on him just as surely as Justin’s are doing to him, memorizing what they see to tide them until they next time they come together. Justin thinks they’re a lot like the universe, drifting and drifting until they come back together in a crash, jarring enough to reset time itself.

          Time. They may not be gods, but Brian hasn’t left New York yet. He fixes the folded collar on his shirt. In Justin’s head, he readjusts his crown.

          “Next week, next month, or never again,” Justin mumbles.

          He can hear Brian’s inhale. They’ve been doing this a lot, lately, playing this game whenever they part. Whispering these words if only so the other will relay back their line.

          Brian pulls through, as always. “It’s only time,” he says.

          It should sound like a warning. Justin sighs and blinks slow. It sounds like a promise instead.

          Justin told himself he would refrain from one more, but he can’t help himself as he draws Brian into another kiss. When they part, they share nothing but a small smile before Brian turns and gets into line for security. He doesn’t look back, and after a long moment, Justin turns around and walks away, back out towards the entrance to the airport. He already knows by now that if he shifts himself just right against one of the windows on the far wall in the lobby, he can see the planes take off into the sky.

          He doesn’t know which one is Brian’s, but he counts the minutes until his flight and finds a plane that prepares to take off around the same time. The sky is a streaky auburn and ember. Justin imagines he can see Brian’s fluffy hair pressing flat against the back of his seat. He takes stock of the picture and imagines he’ll paint it, when his apartment is dark and his sheets are still and flat beside him.

          Justin watches the plane shrink to a speck in the sky and disappear, and he breathes out. He keeps staring; he stares so long that the clouds begin to manifest into shapes, so much like fleeting promises. If he looks away for even a second, the illusion will disappear.

          It’s been getting harder to watch him go every time. Justin imagines he took off on that plane with Brian, that he really is among the clouds. Instead of feeling like soaring, though, he feels closer to falling.

          His heart thumps in his chest. He’s alive. He’s there. On the ground.

          Justin tears his eyes away.

          Someday.

 

**Author's Note:**

> i'm on tumblr [here](http://bluenoahh.tumblr.com/post/136889205065) :)


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